


catch me on your way back down

by polyommatusblues



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, a lot of waking up scenes, and drunk John, and sleeping scenes, and weird dialogue, bear with me okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyommatusblues/pseuds/polyommatusblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s different now, John. You know that.” / Sherlock and John post-Reichenbach. Written in vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	catch me on your way back down

**Author's Note:**

> So I have a lot of waking up scenes here? I don’t know, they kind of took a mind of their own. And a lot of drunk John. Whoops. Also, if I’m mixing up any details, please tell me! This isn’t Beta-ed or Britpicked, so I’m sorry if I got some things wrong.
> 
> Also: tried a new dialogue style! I’ve never written with that before, so let me know what you think! It seemed to fir the overall feel of the fic better than the traditional.

John’s reaction to Sherlock’s return isn’t explosive. Explosive is an understatement. He doesn’t even remember most of it, only that it ended with Sherlock back at St. Bart’s.

(Not on the roof this time.)

.

.

A week goes by before John lets Sherlock back into the flat. It would have probably been longer if Mycroft hadn’t sent him footage from his hidden cameras of Sherlock sleeping outside the door.

John thinks he recognizes the blanket Sherlock’s using as Mrs. Hudson’s, and thinks Sherlock must have insisted to stay there instead of with her.

When he lets Sherlock have his bed back, John makes him change his own sheets.

.

.

John doesn’t spend nights at Mary’s anymore because now he’s afraid when he gets home the next morning, Sherlock will be gone.

So it isn’t a surprise when Mary tires of being second to the famous, but more often infamous, Sherlock Holmes (and three years ago, John was used to that). Two months later, she tells John so.

Mary: “It’s different now, John. You know that.”

She kisses John on the cheek, gives him a sad smile. When she hands him back the ring, it burns a circle into his palm as he closes his hand around it, watches her turn and leave.

The streetlights come on.

.

.

That night, John gets back to the flat drunk, drunker than he was exactly three years, five months, and two days ago. (And that’s saying a lot, because exactly three years, five months, and two days ago he was absolutely hammered.)

He didn’t keep Sherlock’s science equipment. He didn’t keep Sherlock’s violin. He didn’t keep Sherlock’s clothes, tea cups, laptop, or books. About the only thing he did keep of Sherlock’s was that big armchair he used to curl up in, and that’s exactly how John finds him back at the flat, head back, fingers steepled above his nose.

John throws the ring at him.

.

.

They don’t talk about it the next day.

John spends the day in bed with a raging headache, aspirin dissolved in water sitting on his nightstand and he drinks it down, puts the now-empty cup back on the table.

Six hours later, he wakes up, and the cup has been refilled. John drinks that one down, too.

.

.

When Sherlock goes back to Scotland Yard for the first time, John doesn’t go with him. Instead, John gets down on his hands and knees in the flat’s living room, craning his neck under Sherlock’s chair to hopefully see the glint of diamond.

Three hours later, John is asleep on the floor beside the chair, eyes sore and puffy, no ring.

He’s crying in his sleep. And he isn’t awake enough for anything to register, not the sobs racking his body, not the gentle tug up, the feeling of being carried. The quiet slip of gold in his pocket, deep enough so it won’t fall out if he thrashes through the night.

.

.

It’s the first real conversation they’ve had in over three years. The first one that isn’t John just yelling, at least.

John turns the stove off. Pours his mug, reaches for the one Sherlock got from Mycroft and pours it, too. 

John: “She said it’s different now.”

Sherlock: “Isn’t it?”

John: “For her and me, I mean.”

Sherlock: “I know.”

.

.

John comes home that night drunk as well. He clamors through the door, a blubbering mess because he isn’t too drunk, just drunk enough to have the gall to break down some of the tension walling up between them.

John: “How’s it different, Sherlock?”

John’s words slur together. He shifts his weight between his feet restlessly.

Sherlock: “What?”

John: “Mary said you made things different. How’s it different?”

Sherlock is standing now. He closes the door to the flat behind John.

Sherlock: “You took me back.”

John stops moving. He sobers.

John: “I took you back.”

Sherlock nods, hesitantly cups John’s neck in his hands and John exhales, starts crying again. And even though he won’t remember it in the morning, John feels Sherlock crying around him, too.

.

.

John sells the ring. Sherlock buys more science equipment, gets his violin back from Mycroft. It takes six months, but they start falling somewhat back into place.

(If he’s being honest, John thinks ordinarily, it should take longer than six months. But then again, nothing about them is or has ever been ordinary.)

They don’t talk about what happened, though. They don’t talk about what John felt when he heard a knock on the door that night and opened it to see Sherlock standing there. They don’t talk about how neither of them sleep because the nightmares are so bad.

But still they carry on. John suppresses his memories of that night and waking up with demons isn’t so bad now when he hears Vivaldi floating up the steps at 2 am.

He leaves his bedroom door open.

.

.

When John wakes up this time, it isn’t because of his own screaming.

He knows that feeling all too well now. It’s a scratchy, raw burn that coats his throat, but he never actually hears himself scream. This time, he does, and it’s coming from downstairs.

John pads down the steps to Sherlock’s room, thinks about knocking but doesn’t, just goes in.

Sherlock is sitting up, sweaty, shaking, obviously disoriented. 

Sherlock: “I thought they’d stopped.”

If John climbing into Sherlock’s bed is anything but natural, neither mentions it.

.

.

Sherlock is already awake when John stirs the next morning. He is propped on his elbow, facing John, and when John’s eyes flutter open Sherlock stiffens. Wordlessly he retreats into the bathroom, leaving John with sleep still in his eyes.

.

.

John adds this to the list of Things He and Sherlock Do Not Talk About.

It isn’t that long of a list, he thinks, but he’s still speechless when he walks into the living room and sees Sherlock curled up in his chair. John simply steps to the kitchen instead to make tea, pours two cups. It’s becoming habit again.

After he hands Sherlock his cup of tea, Sherlock stares at it for a couple seconds before raising his eyes to John.

Sherlock: “Thank you, John.”

Again, John Watson is speechless.

.

.

On the anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John doesn’t even try to sleep. Neither does Sherlock. Rather, they both take up residence on the couch instead of their usual armchairs.  
John doesn’t cut on the telly and Sherlock doesn’t play the violin. Their laptops sit on the desk, one on top of the other, charging. It’s storming outside.

When lightning flashes, it’s red, and Sherlock’s hair is suddenly matted to his face, his cheeks split down the middle like ceramic.

John’s breath hitches involuntarily and Sherlock reaches over to wrap his long fingers around John’s wrist. They gravitate together like magnets and before too long, Sherlock has an arm around John, nestled at Sherlock’s side, his chest moving in, out, _deep breaths, that’s right, he’s fine, right here._

.

.

Within eleven months things go back to almost normal, or as normal as they were before John watched Sherlock throw himself from St. Bart’s and splatter like a cracked egg on the sidewalk.

John has to rearrange the fridge to fit his milk because tupperware containers containing various body parts clutter the shelves. Sherlock brings Chinese takeout home for dinner when he comes back from the morgue, always enough for two. John watches bad telly in the living room before he goes to bed and

Sherlock: “How _boring_.”

There’s an elephant in the room, though, and John knows Sherlock can feel it moving around, too. 

.

.

One night, Sherlock doesn’t bring home takeout. Instead, when he gets home to John typing quietly at his laptop, he reaches a hand and pulls the blogger to his feet.

He doesn’t let go until they’re at Angelo’s, even though John knows his hands are sweaty.

.

.

John: “I saw Mary today at the grocery store.”

Sherlock: “Oh?”

John: “She asked about you. Seemed happy enough, though.”

Sherlock: “That’s good.”

John: “Yeah.”

Sherlock: “Are you, John?”

John: “What, happy?”

Sherlock: “Yes.”

John: “I’m getting there. Are you?”

Sherlock:

John: “Sherlock?”

Sherlock: “Also getting there.”

.

.

One year ago, John opened the door of 221B to find a very warm, pulsing Sherlock already inside.

This time, he walks in drunk, just in case.

(For now the fourth time in his life, he knows what Harry sees in her booze.)

.

.

Obviously, John is the only one of the two willing to bring up the fact that Sherlock was gone and now he’s back, that he turned John’s world on its axis not just one but two times. And obviously, John is only willing to do so when he’s drunk.

The moment he steps into the flat, Sherlock’s ears perk up, violin perched underneath his chin. He stops playing, puts away the instrument.

John: “Do you even bloody know what today is?”

Sherlock is still.

John: “It’s been a bloody year, Sherlock! Why haven’t we talked about it? You can’t just— you can’t barge into my life again like that, you shouldn’t have—”

John: “God, Sherlock.”

John: “I missed you so bloody much.”

Sherlock: “John.”

All the feeling of the past four years settles for Sherlock in that one word. John can tell, too.

John looks at him, really looks at him, and of course Sherlock hasn’t talked about, hasn’t mentioned it, because all John can see in him right then is raw emotion. And if John’s learned anything from the way Sherlock treats cases, it’s that emotion is generally something he tries his best to avoid.

It doesn’t sound like much, but it is. And the elephant makes way to stomp out of the room. It’s John’s undoing.

He lunges at Sherlock and wraps his arms tight around the taller man’s neck. He feels arms slink around his middle and he pulls back only to crash his lips into Sherlock’s.  
The kiss is wet and sloppy, frantic and needy and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but John swears he can feel Sherlock kissing back.

Every few seconds, John gasps for air between kisses. Then suddenly he stops, plants a hand on either side of Sherlock’s face, positions it so he can look straight in Sherlock’s eyes despite their height difference.

John: “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

And then,

John: “I’m so drunk, Sherlock.”

Even as he says it, he can hear his voice bubbling. Sherlock helps him walk to the bathroom just as the dry heaving starts.

Sherlock: “Come on, then.”

.

.

Sometime during the middle of the night, John is aware of a pressed weight in the center of his back and all down his front. He doesn’t mind it, though; it’s warm and familiar so he snuggles into it, sighs before drifting off again.

The weight on his back wanders up a little further, and before he falls all the way asleep, John can feel it play with the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

.

.

John: “We need to talk about this, Sherlock.”

Sitting at the kitchen table, he grabs two aspirin, drops them in a glass of water. Sherlock’s shoulders sag. He’s facing the fridge, not John.

Sherlock: “Yes, I suppose we do.”

Pause.

Sherlock: “You were drunk.”

John: “But I knew what I was doing.”

Sherlock turns to look at John, and for probably the first time John sees blue and green and violet in them instead of generic grey.

Sherlock: “I’m so— I’m so sorry, John.”

John doesn’t know what to do other than get up from the table and go to Sherlock in one swift, fluid motion. He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads  
together, noses brushing.

Sherlock closes the gap. John melts into it.

Behind them, the aspirin sizzle in the forgotten glass.

.

.

John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed again that night. He brushes his teeth, puts on a t-shirt, and quietly climbs in beside Sherlock. The detective closes his book and puts it on the bedside table. He cuts off the light.

In the darkness, John can just barely make out Sherlock’s features: the point of his cheekbones, the twist of his curls, the slope of his shoulders as they move up, down, _deep breaths, that’s right, he’s fine, right here._

They face each other but do not talk, and John feels the silence between them like a thin layer of ice. His fingers tap on the surface and it cracks, the mattress shifting underneath them as John lifts a hand to Sherlock.

It comes to rest on Sherlock’s side just as his hand finds John’s cheek. John scoots closer to Sherlock and Sherlock wraps his long arms around him.

John can’t remember the last time Sherlock went to bed at the same time as him, but with Sherlock’s soft breath on his eyelids, John doesn’t mind it now one bit.  
.

.

John used to count time passing by blog entries, crime scenes, cups of morning tea.

Now, he counts it by jumpers tossed unceremoniously on Sherlock’s bedroom floor, unfinished spreadsheets, the number of times he says “I love you” between kisses.

Somehow, John thinks, the world revolves a little faster now.

.

.

John: “Well.”

Sherlock: “Well.”

John:

Sherlock:

John: “This is the last anniversary of the year.”

Sherlock: “The day Mary broke off the engagement? You’re actually counting it?”

John: “Not for that reason.”

Sherlock: “Then for what reason, then?”

John:

Sherlock:

John: “It was the day I realized I was in love with you.”

Sherlock: “Oh.”

John:

Sherlock: “I think— I think I realized that the day I jumped.”

John:

Sherlock:

John: “If I had realized it then, I most certainly would have followed you, you know.”

Sherlock: “Don’t say that, John.”

John: “I mean it. I loved Mary, sure, but I also loved that she kept me from thinking about you.”

Sherlock:

John:

Sherlock: “That night, the one when you came home and asked me how things were different?”

John: “Yeah?”

Sherlock: “I’m glad things are different, John.”

.

.

John’s trips to the bar fade, as do both his and Sherlock’s nightmares. Slowly, they settle into a new normal. Less takeout; more trips to Angelo’s (always hand in sweaty hand). More people talking, but after all, people do little else.

Sherlock buys a nightstand for the other side of the bed, and John moves his toothbrush downstairs.

Sherlock spends less time at the morgue, more time at the flat. John always changes the sheets.

John: “Me, too.”


End file.
